


if you were a song (everyone would sing along with you)

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Radio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>college au, romance.</i> Zhang Yixing, morning DJ, aspiring actual musician, desperately in need of caffeine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you were a song (everyone would sing along with you)

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from the khalil fong track 'love song'. originally an entry at onlayforlu @ livejournal, a layhan exchange.

“That was _Wander_ , by Tame Impala. Thanks for tuning in, we’re just getting started with your favorite seven o’clock broadcast. It’s smooth sailing and a mellow morning with me, DJ Yixing. Get ready for the next track: it’s _Gravity Rides Everything_ , from Modest Mouse.”  
  
He takes his studio headphones off and massages his ears, frowning at the sensation of numb earlobes--if Yixing had a dollar, he’d put it in the ‘BETTER TECH’ jar on Henry’s desk. Whatever singles he didn’t spend at the vending machines, at any rate.  
  
Yixing takes a pencil out from his sweatshirt pocket and ignores the holes left in the fabric from its point. He marks away the top two tracks and considers the rest of his lineup through the studio, savoring the sound of the campus coming awake until Henry pops his head in the broadcasting block.  
  
“Hey, you gonna ramp that down, or--?” Yixing throws his pencil in Henry’s general direction anyway--and gives up when it bounces off the doorframe. “I’m just saying,” he says, putting his hands up in a weak gesture of surrender. “It’s gonna be actual radio silence soon. I’m switching your mic on, either way.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah.” Yixing reaches for the swivel-headed microphone, old-school and probably something cobbled together from RadioShack clearance parts. “The ominous creaking noise you’re hearing,” he begins, putting down his pencil and paper, “Is the sound of our producer sneaking up to my seat so he can kill me before I finish this sentence.” Yixing turns in his seat, wincing at the prolonged squeak his ancient chair produces at the movement, and makes sure that Henry is behind the glass and fairly far away before continuing.  
  
“But really, whoever the radio club sends to college budget meetings, come see me after hours so we can have a real talk about how much we don’t spend on things we need, like nice equipment. I’m not in the res halls, but all of you faithful listeners know where the Conservatory practice rooms are. Seriously, we’d like a mic stand that doesn’t rely on duct tape and prayers.”  
  
He can see Henry waving his hands, mouthing words through the soundproof glass, and winks. “And that’s enough studio chatter, I think, because that takes away time from the next track--a gift, from me to you, everybody.” He cues up the next song, an acoustic track with an intense fire, and lets the guitar blend together his soft voice. “Muse’s _Falling Away With You_.”  
  


  
Yixing doesn’t feel half as comfortable as he does with his studio headphones on his ears. Quiet anywhere else, fairly outspoken and comfortable among his conservatory friends; easy enough to pass over without remark. Almost awkward. Sparrow reactions. Prone to writing music in the dead of the night, but also in the morning. Will compose for food.  
  
The mornings he spent awake at 5AM writing down chords and music fragments, it’s not so bad--but when he’s up all night refining an assignment only to stumble into the broadcasting block at seven thirty, it’s rough. He wishes Henry would seriously invest in, at least, a coffee maker that worked instead of the resentful thing that bypasses the filter altogether and merely boils water on the hotplate.  
  
  
  
  
At eight, he signs off with his customary goodbye and let the station promos play him out. “Not bad,” Henry comments. “You didn’t have to cut down songs to make room for promos, you know. Baekhyun will have to beg me his advertising time like everybody else.”  
  
“Yeah, but he sits next to me in film class. Do you know how hard it is to stay awake during this German Expressionism unit?” Henry shoves him away from the broadcast room, laughing as he lets the heavy door swing shut behind him. “Seriously.” But Yixing, too, laughs while he says it, snagging his mug from a table the art college had chucked out after determining there was more paint than substance keeping it together.  
  
His mug hangs from the crook of his index finger as Yixing prods hopefully at the coffeemaker. Staring at the recalcitrant machine produces neither water nor heat; huffing a quiet, frustrated noise, Yixing leaves his mug on the table to make sad eyes at Henry.  
  
“No way.” Henry defends himself, crossing his arms and twitching his lips away from his customary smile.  
  
“I don’t have a coffee maker, come on,” Yixing whines. He can barely make it to the seven-sharp call time at the studio without the jolt of caffeine; his eight-thirty music theory class would eviscerate his transcript otherwise.  
  
“Buy instant granules. Or something. It’s late. Shouldn’t you be going to class?” And it’s true: Yixing’s bitchy Theory II professor practically keeps stopwatch time as soon as it’s 8:29. He swears it’s a stopwatch with laser powers--every time Yixing slinks in, partly wheezing from his run across the north square into the Conservatory, it bores into his skull.  
  
He leaves the studio at 8:27 after a final attempt to guilt Henry into buying a functioning coffee machine produces unsatisfactory results, and barely makes it before the cranky bastard starts up his twelve-tone lecture.  
  
  
  
  
After class, Yixing’s head swims with hexachord invariance examples and the memory of the professor’s dry, stale voice saying _mumble mumble retrograde, mumble mumble Britten_. The theme follows him throughout the day, underscoring Baekhyun’s outraged squawk when he relays Henry’s apparent disrespect and keeping him company while he practices Schoenberg in a small practice room of the conservatory.  
  
He doodles the first few bars of Variations for Orchestra on a folded sticky note about groceries while he waits for the six o’clock train, perfect mirror forms spiraling across the paper.  
  
  
  
  
At six-thirty in the morning, Lu Han refills the hot water dispenser and rearranges the tea display _red labels on the bottom, grey labels at the top_. He thinks about his coursework this semester--Stats for Engineers, Dynamics, Physics III, and something to fulfill his last English credit--and rearranges the tea back to its original configuration after staring intensely at the disordered matrix.  
  
Bereft of customers and with another half hour before the early crowd, Lu Han considers his homework load before taking out a single sheet of paper from his overflowing bag, zipper jammed open. He studies the assignment and its asinine _NARRATIVE ESSAY: Describe a life-changing experience. 500words_ , considering ‘being born’ written multiple times just to have something to hand in at two o’clock.  
  
Lu Han is saved from himself by a brown-haired boy planting his face near the tip jar, an outstretched hand offering a pile of coins and singles nestled in his palm. “Just the one, no room for cream or sugar,” he says, voice muffled by the plastic tub of coins. He strains to hear the order but takes the money, counting it out and sorting it in the register. Just enough for a twenty-ounce cup.  
  
“I’m not actually open yet,” Lu Han informs him, which wrenches a heart-rending groan from the depths of his chest.  
  
“Please.” The hood of his sweatshirt, flopped over his head following the inertia of his faceplant, adds a bright patch of crimson to the drab counter. He looks like a desperate puppy. Lu Han's weakness for big-eyed sad things is a well-documented phenomenon that his friends never give up about, so he pours the kid a cup of coffee. “Thank you,” the boy mumbles, and lifts his head, lips curving up in a sleepy-eyed, bright smile. “Thank you, _thank you_.”  
  
“Uh, no problem.” Lu Han watches him bolt out the door, carefully carrying the styrofoam cup in both hands. He eyes the clock, the streak of red fabric disappearing from his sight as he gears up for the morning rush.  


  
  
“Morning,” Yixing greets as Henry flicks the last of the light switches on. Bulbs flood the space, the neon patches on Henry’s baseball cap bobbing cheerfully amid the stacks of albums and old music magazines. “You’re late.”  
  
“And you’re coherent--did you end up buying that instant coffee, after all?” Yixing stops in the middle of decanting his purchased coffee into his mug at the memory of his grocery list, thrown out after he’d scribbled down the Schoenberg. “I guess not.”  
  
“Shut up.” He sips sulkily at the brew in his cup, porcelain warm against his fingers. “I’m going to play music you hate today.”  
  
“I run this studio,” Henry says cheerfully. “You work for me.”  
  
“I’m going to cuss out your name when we’re live.” But Yixing’s too good-natured for it, they both know. “I mean,” he amends. “I’ll bleep it out.”  
  
  
  
  
The familiar sign-off rolls off his tongue after an hour of easy chatter and laid-back tracks, coffee mug cold and contents long gone. “This is DJ Yixing, coming to you live from your favorite local station. It’s been a good morning with you, everybody--let’s all have a nice day.” Yixing waits to exhale away from the mic, letting Henry signal him off the air. “And Henry Lau,” he adds, leaning into the dead microphone, “Is a dick.” He can see Henry laughing outside, mouthing a _hey, screw you too_ through the glass.  
  
He even gets to his theory class on time, humming the last song on his playlist (but leaves the lecture hall still frowning at the printout of Karlheinz Stockhausen).  
  
  
  
  
_When I was seven, my parents purchased a bicycle. I learned to ride it in the spring that year. It was my first taste of freedom._  
  
Lu Han frowns at the haphazard lines, fingers idly tapping at his keyboard. While he considers describing the bruises on his legs just to fill up space, a familiar person plunks his head on the counter and hands over the same amount of money.  
  
“Twenty ounces, right?” Lu Han pitches his voice loudly, just to see if it gets anything out of the boy performing the most accurate corpse imitation Lu Han's seen since he’d looked in the mirror during exam season last year. He doesn’t so much as twitch when Lu Han takes the money out of his hand, unfolding the singles to reveal a neat pile of nickels and dimes.  
  
His earliest customer only moves again once he can feel Lu Han placing in his empty hands a tall styrofoam cup, blessedly hot. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “Thanks so much.” Engrossed in the consumption of caffeine, he nearly stumbles into the glass doors of the cafe before opening his eyes and navigating his way out. Lu Han watches him with a curious eye and quiet laughter bubbling on his lips at the sight.  
  
  
  
  
Red Sweatshirt Desperate-For-Caffeine Boy becomes a regular fixture in Lu Han's pre-dawn life, nearly plowing into the plastic tip jar every morning until Lu Han just moves it a few inches to the left of the snacks basket. He buys a twenty ounce cup with change he probably excavates from the bottom of his backpack, still sleepy-eyed as he thanks Lu Han politely and stumbles out--it’s like clockwork.  
  
  
  
  
Yixing writes _BUY INSTANT COFFEE_ on the back of his hand during the introductory Cage lecture. It washes off when he’s in the bathroom--and comes back to him when he buys another cup of coffee at the campus cafe, the jolt of memory shaking him awake.  
  
  
  
  
Lu Han can see something that looks suspiciously like life in the boy’s eyes when he hands over the familiar order. “Thank you,” he says, words clearer than usual--and instead of stumbling away, he lingers by the counter, taking careful sips of coffee. “I’m a conservatory student. Music major,” he amends. “Zhang Yixing.”  
  
“I’m Lu Han. Engineering major.” He grins, a touch of mischief in his face as he adds, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”  
  
“Same. I get to meet my morning savior,” Yixing jokes. Lu Han laughs at that, face wrinkling like an old man--but it’s real, honest laughter that warms the silent cafe.  
  
“And what does,” he wheezes between laughs, “My worshipper do that makes him this active in the morning?” Lu Han rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward to cup his face against his palms.  
  
“I’m a radio DJ.” Yixing wiggles his eyebrows at the statement--as it were a particularly attractive accomplishment--and softens his voice. “DJ Yixing, coming to you live from your favorite local station.”  
  
“Yeah? What kind of music do you play?”  
  
“Usually some laid-back stuff. Some indie, some mainstream pop--but nothing too loud. I don’t know too many people who listen to arena rock at seven in the morning.” Yixing tucks a hand into his sweatshirt pocket, still taking measured sips from his coffee. “But there’s some stuff that’s out there, you know, that everybody likes and doesn’t mind hearing while the sun comes up. Explosions in the Sky, the Beatles.”  
  
“I don’t know the first one,” Lu Han says regretfully. “But uh. Yeah, the Beatles, they’re okay.”  
  
“Okay?” Yixing twists his mouth in a sharper smile. “Just okay? You know, not innovative? Cool? Revolutionary? Amazing? They’re _okay_?”  
  
“I mean.” Lu Han flounders. “I don’t really like them that much,” he admits. “I don’t like them at all, really.”  
  
“What do you mean, you don’t like the Beatles?” Yixing says, aghast and totally awake. “Not even--” he fumbles for a recognizable title. “A Day in the Life? Penny Lane? Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds?”  
  
“Are there dubstep versions?” Lu Han hazards--sixty percent of his joke well-intended, with a forty percent chance of curiosity.  
  
“No, but I’ll just speed up Ringo’s drumming to 1500 rpm and broadcast it for you,” Yixing snorts, smile fading slightly when he catches sight of the clock ticking ever closer to the seven-hour mark. “Thanks for this,” he says, lifting his coffee aloft in token. “I’ll say nice things about you to my Beatles-loving friends on air today.”  
  
“Yeah, okay. If someone comes up to me shouting the words to Yellow Submarine, I’m coming after you. I’m a vengeful god!” Lu Han calls after the familiar streak of red fabric darting out the door, energy in his step.  
  
  
  
  
“I met someone totally outstanding today--didn’t like the Beatles. I’ve never met anyone who disliked the Beatles. And because I’m right and this person is wrong, you guys can call in and request your favorite Beatles song--or Beatles cover. You’re listening to your favorite local station at FXO 905, this is your morning DJ Zhang Yixing. We’ll be right back with more shocking confessions, right after this message from our sponsors.”  
  
Lu Han switches his attention from the beat-up radio on the counter to the customer asking for a mocha, keeping a smile on his lips until the end of his shift.  
  
  
  
  
Yixing is back the next day, marginally more awake than his former comatose state--with another joke and another handful of change. “So you don’t like the Beatles,” he laughs. “What is it you like, then?”  
  
“Uh.” The expression on Lu Han's face is an uneasy mixture of caution and discomfort.  
  
“That wasn’t a come-on,” Yixing amends quickly. “Seriously.”  
  
“I like all kinds of music.” Lu Han's voice grows quieter with every word, and Yixing has to strain to hear before making an educated guess.  
  
“You like embarassing music, don’t you?” Lu Han's eyes glare out defensively, a surefire confirmation that makes Yixing emit some kind of quiet giggle. “You totally do. Who is it? Is it Iggy Azalea? Because I know someone who really likes her music and can probably write a dissertation on her new album. It’s probably not Beyoncé, because Baekhyun would’ve sniffed you out in a heartbeat. Who is it?”  
  
“This is the most active I’ve ever seen you,” Lu Han says offhandedly.  
  
“You can’t change the subject!” Yixing protests, but steers the subject away from Lu Han's obvious crush on Iggy Azalea. Rita Ora? “And you only ever saw me in the morning. I’m quiet in the morning.”  
  
“You’re dead in the morning. I think I’m a telepath, sometimes, because you never actually ask for coffee.”  
  
“I give you money, that’s an understanding. And you sell coffee.”  
  
“I sell a lot of things here.”  
  
“It doesn’t look like much to me,” Yixing counters, eyes curving with his smile. Lu Han looks almost offended, waiting for something else from him--but Yixing breaks first, soft giggle erupting into full-blown sound. Lu Han's laughter curves his back and shakes his shoulders.  
  
“You are the rudest customer I’ve ever had,” he manages, reaching for a rough napkin to wipe at his eyes.  
  
“But you like it when I’m rude.”  
  
Lu Han bats at him, swiping at his bicep. “Who says I like you at all?” Yixing yelps--and Lu Han goes for it, sensing blood in the water as he swipes at his arm and his sides. “Buttface.”  
  
“You’re five years old,” Yixing gasps, reaching out to push him away. “Actually five.”  
  
“I know what I am, but what are you,” Lu Han quips, grinning widely as Yixing redoubles his efforts to push him away from the counter and ensure a crash landing into the muffin cart.  
  
  
  
  
“You ever meet people with really old faces, but it turns out they’re not really that old?” Yixing muses on air. “I met someone like that today.”  
  
  
  
  
Lu Han keeps the radio on all day, from Yixing’s first show to the afternoon two-man slot at the end of his shift. _It’s just college loyalty_ , he insists. _Have you tried our seasonal caramel toffee-macchiato today?_  
  
  
  
  
“It’s autumn now, with the leaves turning colors and the days getting colder. Some of you have left messages on our facebook page commenting on the difference; you guys are really perceptive. And in a romantic mood, clearly--here’s a message from Miss 3042: _It’d be sweet if a guy could serenade someone to ask them out_ ,” Yixing reads aloud. “ _DJ Yixing, I hear you play the guitar. Let us hear something like that from you!_ ”  
  
He reaches from his amped acoustic, Henry carefully monitoring the feeds until Yixing slings it over his shoulder and plucks the strings with familiar hands. “I can’t think of any songs right off the bat except this one. And I can tell you, Miss 3042, that this is definitely a love song. _I Love You (I Always Have)_ , by Mikky Ekko. Something quiet and autumn-ish, just for you.”  
  
He plucks at the guitar before launching into the first verse, curling into the guitar and focusing on the words. _The strangest things--the mockingbird sings of love_ Yixing sings, notes warm in his throat and eyes fixed on the lyric sheet. _Yet stranger still the songs he trills were born by a dove. Well, I’ll say what I mean, even if I look foolish._  
  
  
  
  
The song is short, Yixing’s first foray into live performance on air. When his voice echoes, mirroring the repeated phrase, _I love you, I love you, oh I do_ Lu Han stops working for a brief moment, eyes closed to savor the sound.  
  
  
  
  
“Not bad at all,” Henry comments, eyebrows raised as he checks FXO’s facebook page. “You have more requests.”  
  
“Can we make it a regular thing?” Yixing’s interest piqued, he puts away the last of his personal equipment. “Oh, man. Jason Mraz, no way.” Henry bats his eyes at Yixing, mock-sad eyebrows and all, until Yixing pushes the laptop shut.  
  
“Every Friday, before you sign off,” Henry concedes. “It’ll be your thing. We’ll try it for a month.”  
  
  


Yixing leaves his only pencil behind at the studio, floating on air after Henry’s ready agreement. He doesn’t mind--and borrows one from Eyebrow ‘Soo in theory class. Shading in the corners of a blank page, he jots down a list of possible songs to cover before resigning himself to the dissonant counterpoint lecture.  
  
  
  
  
“Do you like anybody on this list?” Yixing passes over, after money exchanges hands for coffee, a folded piece of notebook paper across Lu Han's counter.  
  
“Good morning,” Lu Han says automatically, pursing his lips as he reads the list. “Are you thinking of band names? ‘Cause I’m positive there’s already a guy called Jason Mraz who makes music.”  
  
“No, excuse you.” Yixing colors, cheeks flushing slightly as he sips at his drink. “Sea Wolf are a real band, okay. I get to do covers on my show now. And our producer thinks Jason Mraz--you know, that I should cover him.”  
  
“I heard the one you did.” Lu Han watches Yixing squirm uncomfortably, eyes looking anywhere but at Lu Han's face. “It was really good.”  
  
“Thanks. Um. A lot.” Lu Han watches Yixing blush further before taking pity on him. “This one.” He taps at a name, picked out at random. “Do this one.”  
  
Yixing brightens at the choice. “Smoking Popes? Totally doable.” He scribbles something that looks like _wonka_ , back in a perfect protractor arc as he writes--but before Lu Han can ask, Yixing tilts his head back up to ask quietly, “Will you, uh. Tune in?”  
  
“Sure.” This close, the word feels heavy in Lu Han's mouth. “Of course I will. Gods are supposed to listen to their supplicants.” Yixing’s smile is brilliant--and the thrown pencil is totally deserved, he admits, after it hits him squarely on the forehead.  
  
  
  
  
_Come with me and you’ll be in a world of pure imagination,_ comes the song on Friday. Lu Han pours coffee and paper-bags muffins as he listens, a familiar movie tune from the radio adding something like cheer to the day.  
  
He hums the line _if you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it_ while taking rotational dynamics notes. _Anything you want to, do it, split the vectors, joules per radian--there’s nothing to it._  
  
  
  
  
Yixing doesn’t ask for recommendations the next week. “I have something in mind,” he says--and it’s the spark in his eye that makes Lu Han threaten to dump half a bottle of simple syrup in his coffee. “No, come on, that’s not fair,” Yixing says, mouth screwed up in a pout. “I mean it, it’s decided already.”  
  
Lu Han drops the subject but leaves the simple syrup out as a visual reminder. Yixing pokes at it until the glass bottle dangerously teeters on the edge of the counter, flashing a triumphant V-symbol when Lu Han finally puts it back.  
  
  
  
  
“This is for a friend of mine,” Yixing’s warm voice says, breath ghosting across the microphone. “And it’s kind of a surprise, but here it is. Mister Beatle, if you’re listening, this is for you.”  
  
Lu Han laughs, laughs until he feels like he’ll burst from it, at the sound of a familiar set of chords and Yixing’s wistful voice. _Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away._  
  
  
  
  
On Monday, Lu Han smacks Yixing on the shoulder while he takes his money. Yixing plays Doris Troy on the radio.  
  
The weather turns colder; Yixing shuffles into the cafe wearing progressively thicker sweaters. “I’ll get you a Beatles album for Christmas,” he jokes, pulling at the hem of a cozy-looking knit. “You’ll love it, I know.”  
  
“I’ll find you a Jay Chou dubstep-cover,” Lu Han promises, grinning when Yixing blanches at the thought. “I’m not even kidding.”  
  
“We both like Jay Chou, that’s not nice.” Yixing grabs his cup as the clock ticks closer to seven, turning to shoot back his last word on the matter. ”You don’t play fair.”  
  
  
  
  
_I wrote this song, it’s not too long--’cause I’ve been thinking ‘bout you._ Yixing sounds sweet, fingers carefully prodding at piano keys Lu Han didn’t know he could play. _It’s when I think about you that I hear songs, and you can sing along, maybe, if you want to._  
  
  
  
  
“For the holidays, our station’s feeling pretty generous--and I’m declaring an open floor, ladies and gentlemen,” Yixing announces, preparing to switch feeds as the green in-use telephone light blinks steadily. “And here we have an audience member already willing to chat to your favorite morning DJ about something curious. Hello?”  
  
“Hello?” And Yixing knows exactly who it is, because Baekhyun hasn’t even deigned to disguise his voice. “Hi, DJ Yixing. I’ve been an invested audience member of your show since broadcast one.”  
  
“Thank you, mystery caller,” he allows, pointedly ignoring the sight of Henry laughing and holding his sides through the glass. “Did you call to flatter our humble program?”  
  
“As fantastic as I find it,” Baekhyun cackles, the sound cutting through to Yixing’s headphones, “I’m calling to ask _you_ a question.”  
  
A bead of something terribly close to dread forms somewhere in Yixing’s consciousness, but professionalism prompts him to say, “Go on.”  
  
“Well,” Baekhyun draws the word out. Yixing was definitely never giving him his Godard notes. “I’ve been noticing that a lot of the songs you’re picking out are love songs, and one has to wonder--are you in love with anyone, DJ Yixing?”  
  
“Thank you for calling,” Yixing says loudly--wishing, for a brief moment, he had Jongdae’s loud two o’clock voice to drown Baekhyun out--and snaps the feed off in the middle of an undeniably distinctive bout of laughter. “This is supposed to be _discussion_ ,” he reminds his audience--as if he could reprimand the airwaves, “Not an interrogation.”  
  
Yixing notices the telephone line flash again, green and alive. “Caller number seven, you’re on the air,” he greets. “But if you’re who I think you are--”  
  
“I had my heart broken by someone just like you,” the voice cuts him off, quiet and firm. Yixing knows this voice, knows its owner. It’s not Baekhyun. He keeps his mouth shut as the crackle of something like a sigh filtering through. “And it’s dumb to open a call like this, I guess. Can I try again?”  
  
“Yeah. Go ahead, Caller Seven.” His voice is dry in his throat--Yixing wishes he had a bottle of water, or something, anything, another cup of coffee--and does nothing but listen.  
  
“There’s this guy I know,” the voice says. Yixing’s stomach twists like a bad rollercoaster. “He’s a very popular radio host. On his show, he talks about big gestures like serenades in the moonlight, but it’s been raining at night these days. I don’t think he’s really gotten around to a lot of those lately, do you?” Lu Han laughs. The phone must be to his ear, pressed against his shoulder--he can hear the hubbub of campus life in the background, as if Lu Han had stepped outside to make this call.  
  
“This guy, he sings all these songs, and they get to me--I don’t really listen to anything like that, but I like this guy’s music. I like him. I like him when he’s sleepy, I like him when he’s joking with me, when we’re casual and friendly, and when he’s energetic and sweet all at once. Right before his show. I like him all the time.”  
  
Yixing can see Lu Han in his cafe employee’s apron, coat slung over Henry’s chair as he waves, cell phone still pressed to his face. “And I’d like to hear him talk to me, not about me. What do you say, DJ Yixing?” He wears an unsure smile on his face, familiar and easy to read all at once. “Come out on a date with me. It’s Mister Beatle--and I think you and I have a lot to say to each other, properly, face to face.”  
  
He watches Lu Han hang up, hands tucked in his pockets as he waits for Yixing to catch up. With shaking hands, he presses the relay to switch off the telephone line--and lets the next song on his list play him out.  
  
“Do you like me because I buy things from you?” Yixing jokes, just to watch the tension drain from Lu Han's expression. “That’s a yes,” he clarifies, expecting the slackening lines of Lu Han's body to slump against him in laughter. “I’ll go on a date with you. To a Beatles tribute concert.”  
  
“To a Skrillex gig,” Lu Han agrees.  
  
“You have terrible baggage,” Yixing informs him. Lu Han keeps the smile on his face, the tentative air between them shifting from humor to something personal. “We’re rehabilitating your taste in music.” He can still hear Lu Han's voice, _I had my heart broken by someone like you_ , and hopes he’s doing the right thing--instinctively, Lu Han's eyes flutter shut when Yixing gently presses a kiss on his mouth. His eyes still closed, Lu Han reaches out and pulls Yixing in close, smile tugging at his lips that Yixing can feel.  
  
Yixing cants his mouth open and grins into the kiss when he reaches behind Lu Han's waist, arms wrapping around solid hips. He pulls Lu Han closer to him, the fabric of Lu Han's pants coarse beneath his hands as he leans, back sloping at a gentle angle. Lu Han follows, nipping at his lips and hitching quiet breaths, eyes slitted open, body flush against his. Heady and warm, the rush of affection and want pushes Yixing’s hands lower. Lu Han's mouth still tastes like coffee.  
  
The little shriek that Lu Han makes when Yixing palms his ass doesn’t go unnoticed. “Shut up,” he says immediately, face flushing in uneven patches. He doesn’t pull away from Yixing’s arms, hands still resting on the small of his back.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Yixing offers, trying to hide the grin on his face, “For insulting your maiden dignity.” Lu Han's face creases up at the comment. Too tall to rest against Yixing’s chest comfortably, he hangs his head to hide his laughter, shoulders shaking with a familiar cadence. “I’m really very sorry.”  
  
“You shouldn’t be,” Lu Han admits, raising his head. “I was just--surprised. Is all.” Catching Yixing’s gaze with his eyes, through dark lashes, he adds, “I’d like if we did that again.”  
  
“Yeah?” The smile spreads; Yixing doesn’t even fight it, the just-been-kissed euphoria rushing to warm him again. “We could, if you like.”  
  
“Now?” The coy expression on Lu Han's face suits him too well, Yixing decides. Before he can kiss it off his face, Lu Han puts a hand on Yixing’s chest, palm radiating warmth. “But DJ Yixing, what about your audience?” he asks, grinning fit to burst, and tracks Yixing’s face as he remembers: his show, the _ON AIR_ sign blaring red in his sights.  
  
“Go put your face away,” Yixing grumbles, huffing a sigh as he loosens his embrace. “Otherwise I’ll never finish this show.” He presses another kiss against Lu Han's lips, regretfully pulling away, and lets his laughter follow him to the broadcasting booth.  
  
  
  
  
Yixing picks up his neglected headphones again, staring at Lu Han until the door shuts behind him. He pushes a stunned Henry out of his chair and amps down the last track. “FXO listeners,” he starts, “I think I’m in love with Mister Beatle.”


End file.
